Freedom without Virtue
by sorahart
Summary: In the 18th century, while the world watches the Revolutionary War unfold, something sinister is working behind the scenes with goals of absolute domination. Detective Bruce Wayne gathers a rag-tag team of heroes to combat this foe, but are they enough?
1. A World Divided

**Warning: Before you read this story, I feel I should warn you that there is some strong racism. One of the African American heroes I chose to use in this fic starts out as a slave. I kept it pretty tame for this chapter, but it will probably get more intense later on. If you think you might be bothered by this, then you probably should not read this story. **

**Also, there is a corrupt Pope. I want to make it clear that the Pope in this story is completely fictional, and he will be exposed for his crimes later on. But he is a villain. If you think you might be offended by this, then you should find something else to read.**

**You have been warned. To those moving on, enjoy the story! **

Chapter One: A World Divided

**Birmingham, England**

"Mother I don't want to see him." Diana repeated once more, remaining solemn in her own defense.

"Diana, please. Sir Arthur Curry has traveled for days to meet you." Her mother insisted.

"No, he traveled for days to find any young woman whose skirt he can remove, just like all the other suitors you keep trying to force me upon. And just like all the others, I am not interested."

"Diana you are almost twenty-four and still unmarried. How does that make you look?"

"Like a woman with enough intelligence to do something other than clean houses and cook meals."

"I don't understand what you keep thinking you are going to achieve in your life, Diana, but I assure you that it will not be as glamorous as you hope."

"My only hope is to maintain some independence and self respect, mother. And if that is anything other than glamorous then by all means, marry me away!"

"Is it because he is foreign?"

"What?"

"Foreigners aren't always as untrustworthy as those Frenchmen you see running around. Sir Arthur Curry is a fine gentleman."

"Mother it has nothing to do with his-"

"Our heritage is not all here, you know?"

"Yes, we come from Greek ancestry, I know. That has nothing to do with this. I don't want to just be married off to some random man who comes knocking on my door. I can make my own decisions, mother."

"I just want you to make the right ones Diana. Will you at least _see _the man?"

"Huh…" Diana sighed and looked up the stairwell. "Very well. I'll head up to my room and freshen up a bit."

"Good for you." Her mother nodded with a smile as she watched her dark haired daughter disappear up the stairs.

**Outside the Home**

"A beautiful home." Arthur Curry acknowledged as his carriage approached.

"Just please remember why we are here. No matter how beautiful the lady Diana may be…"

"Yes, yes. We have a greater objective." Arthur groaned. "You would do well not to hassle me about this, Garth. After all I am no amateur."

"No, but you are a hopeless romantic." Garth smiled.

"We'll need to put on quite a façade if we want this to happen fast. We gain the lady Diana's trust and affection, and in doing so we become close with her family. Then…"

"Then we get the tablet before it can fall into the wrong hands." Garth finished.

"Yes. Absolutely."

The carriage came to a halt at Garth's command, and Arthur moved toward the doorway of the Prince Family Mansion. He hardly tapped the door before it was pulled open by a tall woman dressed in fine clothing.

"Hello madam."

"Sir Arthur Curry, I presume?"

"You presume correctly."

"The rumors were true; you are a highly attractive man." The woman smiled.

"Thank you. It means very much coming from such a beautiful woman as yourself." Arthur flattered her.

"Save such compliments for my daughter, if you would."

"I have plenty more madam. Where is the man of the house, if I might ask?"

"My husband is off fighting the Yanks. He has temporarily left control of his company with me."

"Wonderful. I do support women's rights, and running a company, even for a short time, you serve as a fine example of what society should hope to achieve one day."

"I agree."

"What is your name madam?"

"Hippolyta Prince."

"Oh…"

"It's Greek, as is my heritage." Hippolyta laughed. "And exactly where do you hail from, Mr. Curry."

"Oh, Sweden. I come from Sweden." Arthur said quickly. It was a lie.

"Funny, I don't hear an accent."

"I've spent enough time in Britain to be able to cover it up."

"I see." Hippolyta looked up the stairs. "What is taking that girl so long?" She moved up quickly and knocked on Diana's door. There was no response. Angered, Hippolyta pushed the door open. She found the room empty, and the window wide open. "Oh my goodness…"

"What is it?" Arthur came running.

"Diana! She's gone!"

**Venice, Italy **

"Hurry up!" The archer dressed in green whispered hoarsely. "They'll be awake soon!"

"I am hurrying Queen!" The red-dressed archer snapped as he lowered another heavy leather bag down the chimney. The green archer grabbed the bag and tossed it into the room.

"Is that the last one?" He asked.

"Yes."

"Good." The green archer smiled. "The woman who runs this orphanage is going to wake up tomorrow and find enough money to feed these children for a year!"

"Yes, yes, we did a great deed. Now get out of there will you?" The red archer barked.

"Fine." The green archer reached into his quiver and pulled a hunting arrow with the arrowhead painted green. He stuck the arrow into the floorboards. "They will remember the sign of the Green Arrow."

"Must you be so dramatic?" The red archer snapped as the Green Arrow climbed up the chimney.

"Come on Leroy, have some dramatic flare." His green-clothed partner smiled. "We're stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, for goodness sakes. Its very theatrical."

"And you yourself are rich, you hypocrite." Stated Leroy Harper.

"Well I'm not going to steal from myself, that would down right impractical." The Green Arrow laughed.

"Well we just robbed the highest religious official in Italy; we should probably get to hiding." Leroy reasoned.

"You're calling _me_ a hypocrite? That man we robbed tonight claims to be holy, but refused to give a cent of his wealth to these starving children."

"I just fail to understand why we have to steal all of this money when you yourself have plenty."

"Because if we didn't steal it, then the unjust fools like that priest tonight would get away with their crimes unpunished." Arrow reasoned. "Plus, I would have no use for my bow and arrow and what fun would that be?"

"Just don't become too engulfed in these Robin Hood antics you love so much, I beg of you."

"You are such a pessimist." Arrow scoffed.

"And you are too much of an optimist."

"And which one of us is happier?"

"The same one who is more likely to be killed in the near future. And I'll give you a hint; it isn't me."

"I know very well I'm going to die doing this some day, Leroy. That's the thrill of it all."

"Sometimes I question your sanity Oliver."

"Sometimes? Then you aren't spending nearly enough time with me yet." He laughed and looked out into the rising sun. "But I do suppose you are right; we should probably leave Italy. There will be a very large manhunt out for us by morning."

"Where do you think we should head next?"

"England."

Leroy shot Oliver a painful glare. "England? Of all places, why England?"

"There is a very rich family in Birmingham with a very attractive young heiress."

"Oh Lord… so tell me, do you intend to rob this family, or sleep with their daughter?"

"A little of both. Whichever comes first."

"And just who is this family you speak of?"

"They own the Amazon Foundation. The family name is Prince."

**London, England **

"It was the butler." Detective Bruce Wayne announced.

"How could you possibly know that?" Constable James Gordon demanded. "He is the only person who you have even questioned!"

"He is also the only one I need to question."

"And what exactly do you have as evidence, Mr. Wayne?"

"The butler claimed that at the time of the killing, he was at the market buying a loaf of bread. There is, however, no bread in the pantry, which leads me to believe that he in fact did not buy said loaf."

"So you are incriminating the man based on bread?" Gordon scoffed.

"No, I would appreciate it if you would let me finish." Bruce narrowed his eyes. "The bread was only my first clue. When I first began the interrogation, I simply told the butler that Mr. Harriett was killed with a gun."

"Which he was. Clubbed to death with a pistol." Gordon nodded.

"Yes, but I did not tell the butler that he was clubbed. I simply said that the murder weapon was a gun. And halfway into the interrogation, the butler told me very plainly that he did not club his master to death."

"Yes, so what?"

"Normally when you hear that someone was killed with a gun, you automatically assume that they were shot. The butler expressed that he knew his master had been clubbed, not shot."

It appeared that a series of gears clicked into place behind Constable Gordon's eyes. "That is quite a coincidence."

"No such thing, Constable."

"But we do need a motive, Mr. Wayne. And I'm afraid a motive is something you do not have."

"Actually, I do." Bruce stated immediately.

"Oh of course you do." Gordon recoiled, seemingly frustrated. He had never been particularly fond of Detective Wayne solving his cases for him.

Bruce called the butler out into the courtyard, and the elderly man approached them slowly. "I assure you gentlemen that I have already told you everything that I know." He pleaded.

"Shut up." Bruce told him casually. He pinched the butler's cheeks with his gloved hand and pulled the skin out a little. "The man is wearing blush."

"So what does makeup possibly have to do with a motive?" Gordon demanded.

"Well a man usually doesn't wear it without a damn good reason." Bruce then spit on the butler's cheek, and wiped away the makeup, revealing the skin's true tone beneath. "Notice the odd yellow discoloration of his skin, Constable?"

"What is it?" Gordon inquired.

"It's also on the whites of his eyes, yellow discoloration." Bruce continued.

"Where are you going with this sir?" The butler demanded, pulling away.

"It's the cause of jaundice, a common symptom if liver disease. I'm not surprised you've developed complications with your liver either, you stink of alcohol."

"What are you implying?" The butler asked again.

"What is it? Hepatitis? Liver cancer?" Bruce continued on.

"Mr. Wayne was does this man's illness have to do with a motive for murder?" Gordon asked.

"Check Mr. Harriet's will. He had no children, no wife, and no living family to speak of. I trust Mr. Harriet left a large sum of his money to you, didn't he?" Bruce eyed the butler. "But he was in good health, and you are dying. You needed that money now, for a doctor. Am I right?"

"You are most certainly not!" The butler spat.

"So you haven't already seen the doctor then?" Bruce moved and tore open the butler's shirt! Right above the area of his torso where the liver would be, there were incisions in a circular pattern, obviously done by someone with medical knowledge. "If you haven't been to the doctor, then why has your liver been looked at recently?"

After a moment of silence, the butler breathed a deep sigh. "My employer, Mr. Harriet, was a selfish man. I wanted only a small raise in my salary, just so that I could afford a doctor's visit… but he refused…"

"So you killed him, and cashed in on his will." Bruce finished.

"Can you blame me?" The butler screamed. "I just want to live!"

"So did Mr. Harriet." Bruce Wayne turned to face Constable Gordon. "There you have it Jim. Evidence, a motive, and a confession."

"You know I don't appreciate you coming in a solving my cases for me." Gordon whispered as he moved to arrest the butler.

"Only doing my job old friend." Bruce responded, and then headed back to his carriage, where his own butler, Alfred Pennyworth, awaited him.

"Any suspects?" He asked.

"I've already solved the case." Bruce answered as he entered inside the carriage.

"Solved it? Master Bruce it has been under an hour!"

"And that was all it took." Bruce shrugged.

"So have you received your pay?"

"You know I don't charge for murder cases, Alfred."

"Yes, yes. I know." Alfred groaned. "But free cases don't pay taxes, you know."

"I wouldn't worry about the taxes Alfred. I'm a wealthy enough man that I can afford the occasional non-profit work."

Within an hour, the carriage had reached the large home that Bruce had inherited from his parents. Alfred brought the horses to a halt, and Bruce stepped out onto the pavement and walked up to the door. He pushed the door open and walked into the cluttered mess that was his home.

The floors were littered with books and newspapers, and important notes had been nailed onto the walls to the point where barely any wall was actually visible. There was a fireplace on the far side of the room, and at its sides were statues of Bruce's late mother and father, Martha and Thomas Wayne. Buried somewhere among the clutter was a piano, and leaned against one wall was a violin. Bruce took a seat in the chair before the fireplace, and lit his pipe.

He had barely gotten out the first breath when a young, dark haired boy burst into the room. He was an orphan who Bruce had taken on as a protégé, his name was Richard Grayson. He was currently thirteen years old, and Bruce could already tell he had amazing potential in the field of deduction.

"What is it Richard?" Bruce asked calmly.

"A young woman was here just a few moments ago, looking for you. I believe her name was Donna Prince."

"Prince? Would she be from the same Prince family that is buying up land all over Birmingham?"

"The very same." Richard nodded.

"What did she want?"

"She had a letter for you, she said it was important." Richard handed Bruce an envelope. Quickly Bruce tore open the parchment and unfolded the letter inside.

_February 1__st__, 1778_

_Dear Mr. Wayne,_

_I am writing to you from the city of Birmingham, with news of the utmost importance. I have had my second oldest daughter rush this letter to you by and all means necessary, and I ask you to consider its contents carefully and with an open heart. My husband is the owner of the very prestigious Amazon Foundation, which works in dealing and distributing ancient artifacts from around the world. We are a very wealthy family, and are willing to pay any price for your aid in our problem._

_My eldest daughter, Diana Prince, went missing last week on the date of February 24__th__. My husband is away, fighting against the Yankees, and has entrusted management of the Amazon Foundation to me. Therefore, my workload has been quite heavy as of late, and I am unable to search for her on my own. I have already contacted the police, but at this point they have no leads as to where she may have gone. Just as I was beginning to think all hope had been lost, I remembered the rumors of Detective Bruce Wayne. You are famous throughout all of England for your incredible powers of deduction, often renowned as the greatest detective this world has to offer. And so, I beg of you to use those deductive powers to find my daughter._

_As I stated above, I will pay any price for your help. All I ask is her safe return. I will provide you a place to stay in Birmingham until she is found, and any and all commodities will be paid for by the Amazon Foundation. Normally I would not go to such drastic measures, but I'm sure that you have heard the stories of the brutal serial killer currently wandering the streets of Birmingham, and with such grisly murders turning up, I fear greatly for my daughter's safety. I ask only for my daughter's safe return. Name your price, and I will pay it. Please Mr. Wayne, bring Diana back to me._

_-Sincerely _

_Hippolyta Prince_

"No." Bruce said dryly and placed the letter back in the torn envelope.

"I think we should accept it." Richard argued.

"I'm a detective, not a bounty hunter. I won't travel all the way to Birmingham just to apprehend some spoiled runaway."

"But you said yourself you are interested in these strange killings going on, the ones related to the killer mentioned in the letter. Perhaps if we go to Birmingham looking for this girl, we can also look for the serial killer." Richard reasoned. "The woman said she would pay for our housing and commodities, so it would basically give us free time to investigate."

"I don't have Jim Gordon on my side in Birmingham, that area is outside of his jurisdiction. I would be arrested in a heartbeat for interfering with police business." Bruce reasoned.

"Not if no one knew you were the one apprehended the killer." Richard smiled.

"What are you getting at?"

"Think about it Bruce. You put together some sort of a false identity while investigating the killings, adorn a costume, perhaps. And-"

"Richard this isn't some damned fairy tale." Bruce interrupted. "And I would prefer you not treat it as one."

"Bruce don't you remember when your parents were killed?"

"I thought I told you to never speak of that to me!"

"Just listen! It happened to me too, remember?" Richard narrowed his gaze. "And this serial killer in Birmingham… every person he's killed, has had a family of some sort. Parents, siblings… children. And they all go through exactly the pain you and I went through. Do you want to let that continue?"

There was silence, so Richard continued. "We go to Birmingham to find this Diana Prince, but while we are there, we investigate this killer under false identities, and bring him to justice. And we make sure that no one else has to feel the same way we did. Don't you want that?"

Bruce turned, looked his protégé in the eyes, and said, "What exactly did you have in mind?"

**Virginia**

If you could shoot a rifle, you could join the militia. That was the rule in Virginia, and it was also the reason why fourteen year old Billy Batson was now a soldier. He wasn't the youngest in the militia, not by far. Some of the kids were as young as ten. But he was definitely the most uncomfortable holding a gun.

Billy didn't want to hurt anyone, and the very idea of battle terrified him. But he always liked to the right thing, and considering how unfair Britain had been treating its colonies, joining the militia certainly seemed like the right thing to do. No matter how scared he was.

The year was 1778; the war with Britain had been going on for about three years now. Most still called it the Revolution, but Billy called it a nightmare. His only source of confidence was General George Washington. Washington was in charge of the Virginian militia, and more of a farther figure to Billy than anyone else had ever been. Billy was an orphan turned a soldier, and Washington's encouragement was the only thing that kept him going.

George was a tall man, and he never spoke much. But when he did, it was always meaningful and worth hearing. He never wasted a single word. Billy thought about all of this while he cleaned the rifle that had been given to him. He wasn't sure if he would ever be brave enough to actually shoot someone with it, but he figured he might as well keep it clean whether it would make a kill or not. Billy was relatively new to the militia and hadn't really seen battle yet, something he was extremely thankful for.

"Billy? Are you listening?" A loud voice interrupted his thoughts. He shot his gaze up to see the general eyeing him. "We were discussing something important."

"Right, strategy, planning. I know sir. Sorry." Billy said.

"There will time for this later son." Washington said as he removed the rifle from Billy's lap, and placed it with the rest of their weaponry. Then he moved back up to the map in the middle of the tent that he had called most of the militia into, to discuss a plan for an upcoming battle.

"Ok, so we know that the redcoats will be heading into this valley." He said, pointing to a valley on the map. "We'll have a small platoon waiting for them there. That platoon will feign a retreat, and lure the redcoats through this trail here." He pointed to a pass through the woods that had been drawn out on the map. "We'll have sharpshooters in the trees throughout the entire pass, who will take out their cavalry. After that, we'll draw them out of the pass and into this hill area here." He pointed again on the map. "We'll have cannons atop these hills, as well as the rest of our force waiting. Our hidden squads will emerge out of the woods, and our entire force will box in the redcoats here, attacking them from every direction. They will either have to surrender, or be wiped out."

Several of the men began to congratulate Washington on the battle plan, but Billy just stood and felt his skin pale. To many it sounded like a brilliant strategy. To him it sounded like terror and mindless bloodshed.

Later, after the militia had settled down and everyone went to rest up for the battle, Washington approached Billy. "Are you alright son?"

"Yes sir. Terrified, otherwise but alright."

"You don't have to go into battle with us Billy. No one is making you. We have enough men as it is. You're only fourteen; you shouldn't have to worry about this."

"I have to do it." Billy stated. "My dad always told me that if you do good things, good things will happen to you in return. And everyone seems to think that this war is a good thing, so I'll be happy to fight in it."

"Billy war is never a good thing. Men die, lives are destroyed, and money is wasted on death..."

"Then why are we even fighting it?"

"Because if we win, we get so much more than a simple victory. We get our independence. We get freedom from Britain's tyranny. And that, Billy, is a good thing."

"I want to fight for it sir, I really do. I just…"

"You don't want to kill anyone?"

"No."

"I understand completely. And hopefully you won't have to. You're far too young for your innocence to be blasted away like that."

"I'm not innocent sir. I'm just not dirty either."

George smiled briefly. "Take your time Billy, make your own decision. I'm sure it won't be the wrong one."

"Thank you sir." Billy nodded. Then he headed off to prepare for the coming day. Little did he know, the dawn would bring with it an event that would change his entire life, forever.

**Rhode Island **

The sun beat down heavily as the slave worked through the tobacco field. He had built up a profuse sweat, but continued working tirelessly. Tobacco plants were difficult to work with, but he did his work well and without complaint. He had been given the name John. John Stewart. He had been brought over on a slave ship when he was just a small child, and he no longer remembered what his name had been in Africa. I didn't matter much, really. He knew he was never going back.

The owner of the tobacco plantation was Carter Hall, a man of fair wealth. A few years ago he had taken a wife named Shayera. From the few glimpses John had caught of her, she was a beautiful woman. Fiery red hair, strong green eyes… the list of perfections was endless. She had never spoken to him or to any of the slaves for that matter, but he had always secretly wished that she would. He doubted the day would ever come, but at least he could dream. Really, dreaming was the only liberty he had.

One of these rare glimpses of Mrs. Hall was captured on this day; he spotted her heading out to the well for some water. The sun seemed to radiate off of her body, building an angelic golden cascade around her. Beautiful. John noticed the bruises on her face, even from his far distance. He had long suspected Carter of beating his wife, and he didn't like it. But that didn't matter. None of his opinions mattered. Because to them, he was just an object. To them he was just another dumb Negro who did labor and kept his mouth shut. The thought sickened him, but he had come to accept it over the years.

Still, seeing the lady Shayera with those bruises on her face… it made him angry. What, did Carter thing that she was just a thing too? How many others were nothing but objects to him? Objects that he could just abuse and control with violence and force. John hated it. He hated Carter Hall and the things that he believed in. The things he did, the things he said, all of it. But more than anything, John hated that Shayera just put up with it all. She seemed like a strong woman, so why did she let the man walk all over her like that?

Suddenly, John's thoughts were interrupted by the sharp pain of a whip cracking against his bare back. He let out a cry and fell forward. "What are you dreaming?" A gruff voice shouted. "This isn't a place for dreaming you dirty n-"

"If you call me that word, I am going to take that whip out of your hands, and string it through your filthy ass." John growled. He spoke better than most slaves, something he had earned from listening to his masters scream at him for disobedience over the years.

John got to his foot and looked the man in the eye. It was Hank Hall, one of Carter's two boys. The other was Don. Hank and Don weren't Carter's sons by blood, but he had taken them in from birth and raised them. Don was ok; John actually liked him pretty well. Don was never violent, and he actually seemed compassionate toward the slaves sometimes. Unfortunately, Carter had forbid him a long time ago from speaking to them.

And Hank, he was a different story. He got his kicks out of causing pain. John hated him just as much as he hated Carter. "Did you just threaten me, slave?" Hank snarled.

"No, it wasn't a threat. It was a promise." John responded coolly.

"You think just because you can talk good, you're tougher than me?"

"No. I think I'm tougher than you because you're still here, instead in the militia fighting for your country. You think you're invincible here, where you have a whip. But the second you don't have all the power, you're terrified."

After a moment of enraged silence, Hank began to walk away. "Get back to work. I'll be sure to discipline you later."

"Why do you do that to yourself?" A woman's voice asked. John turned around and, to his surprise; Shayera was standing about twenty feet away.

"What?"

"You get beaten a lot, I can tell. Why did you mouth off to Hank like that?"

"I don't want to let him have power over me." John answered.

"But… he does."

"I'm sorry you think that." John told her. Then he went back to work. But as she began to walk away, he called after her and said, "Carter doesn't have that power over you, either."

"Excuse me?" She said.

"You know what I mean." And with that, John turned away and went to finish his work, leaving her to think.

Later that night, after the sun had fallen and John went back to the crappy slave house that had been built for him and the family's eight other slaves, he began to drift to sleep. Before he could completely lose consciousness, however, he was shaken awake by Mari. She was another slave on the plantation, the only female worker. "John! John wake up!"

"What?" He asked groggily.

"Don's got a plan!" She said excitedly. They were usually kept separate, in different divisions of the barn, but Mari had apparently snuck into his area somehow.

"Don Hall?"

"Yes." She pulled John toward the door, and it was opened by Don Hall.

"I don't have long." He said quickly. "So listen carefully."

"What is it?" John asked.

"I don't know what you did to anger Hank and Carter so badly, but they're out for blood." Don said.

"What?"

"Yes, I heard Hank say something about you talking to Mrs. Hall?"

_"Damn it." _John breathed. "So what are they going to do?"

"John, they're furious. I think they're going to kill you."

"So why are you telling me this?"

"Because I'm getting you out of here." Don answered. "All of you."

"You mean-"

"Yes. I'm helping you escape."

**The Vatican, Italy**

"I was robbed! Robbed because _your _men failed to protect my fortune, Bertinelli!" The Pope screamed. "I am the _highest _religious official in the Catholic Church! I _deserve _that wealth, do I not?"

"Sir, I hate to disagree with you, but is God not the highest religious official?" Once of the guards inquired. The Pope looked to Franco Bertinelli, leader of the mob. Franco quickly took his pistol and shot the guard in the head.

"I apologize for him sir." Franco nodded.

"Apologize for this!" The Pope threw an arrow into the floor. An arrow with a bright green tip. "The robbers left that arrow where my money used to be! The money that I hired your men to protect!"

"A calling card." Franco picked up the arrow and studied it. "I heard of this man before. They call him the Green Arrow."

"I do not care about his reputation. I want him dead!"

"Of course, sir." Franco nodded. "And he will be dead. I have my finest assassin ready to search for him."

"One assassin? Just one mere assassin? That is all you send after the man who dared to steal from me?" The Pope screamed.

Suddenly, a crossbow bolt ripped through the air and shot the tip off of the green arrow Franco held. The Pope looked to where the bolt had been fired from, and saw a beautiful young woman holding a crossbow, standing directly in the moonlight. "I promise you sir, I am all that you need."

"A young woman? This is your finest assassin?" The Pope asked skeptically.

"She is my daughter. And I assure you, master, that she is far more lethal than any other than all of Italy. If anyone can kill the Green Arrow, it is the woman standing here with us." Franco promised.

"I see." The Pope stepped toward her. "And what is your name?"

"Helena Bertinelli." She armed her crossbow and moved toward the door to begin her search. "But you can call me the Huntress."

"Think that crossbow of yours can rival this thief?" The Pope inquired.

"Sir, the Green Arrow will dead by sunset tomorrow. I guarantee it."

**Drogheda, Ireland**

"Wildcat! Wildcat! Wildcat!" The people on the sidelines continued to chant. Theodore 'Teddy' Grant ignored them, drowned them out until he couldn't hear them anymore. There was only one thing that mattered at the moment, one thing to focus on… and that was his opponent.

The opponent swung a punch. Teddy dodged it swiftly and drove his fist into the guy's jaw. He felt bone crack. With his other hand, Teddy punched the guy in the ribs, dealing a lot of damage. The opponent was disoriented now, and Ted decided to just finish the fight quickly. He fist connected with the opponent's nose, and in a flash the guy hit the ground, blood spraying from his face like a fountain.

"Too easy." Ted shook his head. The people on the sidelines were still cheering his name, or at least the name that they had given him. Wildcat. He had been the reigning champion of these illegal fight clubs for over a decade now. He made decent money off the fights, and he loved the feel of the crowd cheering his name, the energy flowing off of them… but he was sick of the simplicity. Lately, everyone who had stepped him to fight him had gone down easily. He missed the challenge of the fight, the wave of panic when he was unsure if he would win, followed by the powerful determination. He missed it all.

Ted got his money from several of the people placing bets on the fight, and walked off to the alley outside the small, crappy tavern that became an arena every Thursday night. The police didn't know, and the ones that did wouldn't tell.

"Another quick win?" A girl's voice inquired. Ted looked to see Dinah Lance smiling at him.

"I told you not to come here anymore lassie." He said dryly.

"I'm not that well behaved." She laughed. "And I worry about you."

"You don't have to."

"Teddy you're getting older and-"

"Shut your trap will you? I'm still as tough as I was thirty years ago!"

"I know you're tough, Teddy. And I also know you're stubborn."

"That's called Irish pride lassie."

"You mean from someone who isn't really even Irish?" She grinned.

"Oh come on now, I been living here fifteen years! I picked up the accent and all that!"

"I know." Dinah took his hand in hers. "But remember Teddy, the luck of the Irish does wear off."

"I don't need luck. I have skill."

"And you also have back pain and gray hair."

"Hey! It's not gray; there is still some definite black in there! You just need to look for it!"

"Teddy I don't want you to get hurt!"

"I know birdie, I know. It's just that after your mother died, she made it clear that she wanted me taking care of you. And fighting is the only way I can earn the money to do that right now."

"We'll think of another way, Teddy." Dinah smiled and headed down the alley. "I'm headed back home. Are you coming with me?"

"Soon, birdie. I'm just gonna' pick up one last drink."

"Fine. But remember, _one _last drink, not _ten _last drinks." She smiled.

"I know, I know." Ted laughed. He watched her disappear, and then put his hand back on the wooden door, ready to head back into the tavern. He had practically raised Dinah ever since her mother died in a fire, and she was like a daughter to him. He would have done almost anything for her, but when she asked him to quit fighting… he found he just couldn't bear to give it up.

"Are you the one they call Wildcat?" A voice with a heavy Spanish accent interrupted. Ted turned his head to see a new figure in the alley. He was tall, dark skinned, and extremely muscular. His body was a chiseled silhouette against the light of the full moon, but the hatred in his cold, unfeeling eyes could be noticed even in the darkness.

"That depends whose asking." Ted responded.

"Someone looking for a fight." The man said.

"Not tonight buddy, I'm settling down."

"Are you? Why? Because the blond cheeka told you to?"

"Look pal, I'm not interested in a fight right now. Why don't you go look elsewhere?"

"There is no challenge elsewhere." The man stepped forward. "Isn't that what you miss? What you crave? The challenge of the fight. I can see it in your eyes, you are a warrior. You don't just want to fight, you want to win. You _need _to win. And it needs to be a victory worth winning. That my friend, is something you will not find in there. That is something you will find with me."

"I said I-"

"And do you know how I know this?" The man continued. "Because your eyes… they are the same as mine. We are both warriors looking for a test. I see no reason to deprive ourselves of the thing we want."

Ted turned and stared the man down, a determined look on his face. "What's your name pal?"

"They call me Bane."

**Pacific Ocean **

The stolen naval ship moved swiftly through the waters as soldiers of fortune from countries all around the world littered the decks, sharing stories of bloodshed and bragging about their many kills.

In the Captain's Quarters of the ship, sat Lexington Luthor, reading _The Art of War _by Sin Tzu. Several books on warfare were littered about the floors of the room. Just as he was finishing the book, there was a knock on the door behind him. "What is it?" Lexington barked.

The door opened slowly, and a tall, dark haired soldier stepped inside. "We are approaching a Spanish ship, sir. What do you want us to do?"

"Is the ship larger than ours?"

"No sir."

"Raid it. Decapitate everyone on board the ship, except for one person. Leave this person to go back and tell the tale to his superiors. Take all of their weaponry and food, and any gold you can obtain as well. We'll leave our mark on Spain while we wait for this war between Britain and their colonies to end."

"Pardon my asking sir, but exactly what are we waiting for?" The soldier inquired.

"It's simple, really. It doesn't matter who wins the war, both sides will be greatly weakened after it ends. And we will take advantage of that weakness. We'll conquer both Great Britain and America. Then we will move onward and conquer everything to East. I am going to be the next great conqueror!"

"Very ambitious sir."

"No soldier. I'm not ambitious. I'm just taking what I deserve. The second part of my plan… that's the ambitious part." Lexington grinned.

"Would you tell me what that might be?" The soldier asked.

"Are you a man of history, soldier?"

"Not as much as you are, but I've read a few books in my time."

"Genghis Khan, William the Conqueror, Alexander the Great, Vlad the Impaler, Sun Tzu… they were all great men. They all had the will to do what other men did not, and they succeeded where other men would fail. But all of them eventually fell. Do you know why that is soldier?"

"Why sir?"

"Because as brilliant, as powerful, as they were… they still succumbed to the atrocities of human fragility. Humans are weak, frail… a simple cut on a piece of paper, and we bleed. A simple gunshot fires, and we cower. A simple disease and we fall ill. A simple knife to the chest, and we die. Humans are not powerful by nature, and thus they cannot handle power."

"What are you getting at sir?"

"I plan to break that cycle." Lexington smiled. "I plan to improve upon nature's design."

"How… exactly?"

"Don't ask too many questions soldier. It might get you killed."

"I'm sorry sir."

"No you're not. You're curious, and that's nothing to be sorry about. Curiosity is the first step to gaining knowledge, and knowledge is the greatest form of power. Therefore, curiosity is powerful." Lexington got up and walked toward the soldier, looking him in the eyes. "Just remember soldier, like all forms of power, curiosity has its limits. And pushing those limits almost always leads to one's demise."

"I will remember that sir."

"You'll do more than remember. You'll learn it, and master it. Because I need you to be as powerful as you can be." Lexington placed his hand on the soldier's shoulder. "Because you are my secret weapon, Clark Kent."

**A/N And so it begins! The rest of the main characters will be introduced in the next chapter, and some of their storylines will start tying together. It will all come together eventually, so stay tuned to find out how!**


	2. The Tally Man of Birmingham

Chapter Two: The Tally Man of Birmingham

**Birmingham, England**

"Mr. Wayne!" Hippolyta Prince nearly ripped the door off of its hinges when she arrived to greet the detective at her doorstep. "I am very appreciative that you would come on such short notice."

"I should be the appreciative one, Mrs. Prince. It was very generous of you to pay for my stay in Birmingham."

"Anything to see the safe return of my daughter, Mr. Wayne."

"And you will, I assure you. But before we get down to that troubling business, where will my apprentice and I be lodging while in Birmingham?"

"I've prepared guest rooms for the both of you, both on the top floor and with balconies. I'll have my daughter Donna show you to the rooms."

"Thank you." Bruce gave a nod, and he and his protégé, Richard Grayson, entered inside the old castle in which the Prince family had lived for a little over a decade now. Within a few moments, a girl about Richard's age arrived with a smile on her face. She and Richard immediately went off to see his room, while Bruce stayed back to look over the house a while longer.

Within twenty seconds, Bruce knew where all of the exits were. He had determined the most likely places to find a gun, and was aware that at the current altitude he could run about a mile and a half before physically needing to stop.

Another thing he noticed was that antiques filled the home, literally at least a dozen artifacts in every room. This came as no surprise to him, considering the Amazon Foundation was mainly an antique dealership.

"Ah, and you must be the famous Bruce Wayne." A strong masculine voice said from behind. Bruce turned to see a tall, muscular blond haired man smiling at him.

"Correct. And you are?"

"Arthur Curry. I traveled here to meet the lady Diana, but she was gone by the time I arrived. Quite a disappointment, I must say."

"That is precisely why I am here." Bruce nodded. "You say you traveled to get here?"

"I did."

"Where did you travel from Mr. Curry?"

"I hail from Sweden."

"No you don't."

"…Excuse me?" An awkward pause befell the two men.

"You are certainly not from Sweden; I could tell that much even if I hadn't heard you speak."

"I've learned to cover up the accent Mr. Wayne."

"It's not just the accent. Your dialect, speech patterns, idioms, none of it is even remotely Swedish. I don't care how much you travel, you haven't learned to completely change the way you speak. Plus, you expect me to believe that Arthur Curry is a Swedish name? Of course that probably isn't even your real name, but if you really needed to create a fake one, you could have at least put a little effort into making it authentic."

"What are you accusing me of Mr. Wayne?" Arthur narrowed his gaze.

"As of now, I only accuse you of lying. But now that you are my first suspect, the accusations may become greater upon further investigation."

"Suspect? What do you suspect me of Wayne? Diana ran away, she wasn't kidnapped!"

"You and I both know we aren't talking about Diana anymore." Bruce said coolly. Arthur froze in bewilderment.

"You can't possibly be attributing me to the murders popping up around the city!"

"Like I told you, at this point I only attribute you to lying." Bruce turned toward the stairwell to go and see his room. "We'll be in touch Mr. Curry."

**Rhode Island**

John, Mari, and the six other slaves working on the Hall Plantation watched and waited carefully. Then they heard the first scream. Mari looked out quickly to see that the fire had been started in the back of the house, and now the entire Hall family would be evacuating through the front. Just as planned. "Don't started fire! Let's go!" She shouted.

John kicked open the door to his holding area, which Don had been sure to unlock earlier that night. All of the other slaves followed his lead. They all broke into a sprint toward the back fence of the tobacco plantation. When they finally reached it, John searched a moment for the hole Don spent the afternoon digging. He found out covered up by some brush.

The hole went underneath the fence, which was far too tall to climb and had barbed wire at the top. John crawled through the hole, followed by everyone else, and they were officially off of Hall property. "Don said there was an old irrigation tunnel out here we could hide in. Said there would be plenty of water." John said quietly.

The group began to carefully search the area, until finally one of the men found it. "Over here!" He called. The escaping slaves quickly began shoveling in through the small entrance. John and Mari, furthest from the entrance, took off with a run. As they were nearing it, John hit a large rock with his bare foot. With a loud cry, he fell into the dirt, wincing in pain.

"John!" Mari turned back. "You ok?"

"Rolled my ankle. Don't know how fast I can walk."

"Come on! We're almost there!" Mari grabbed John by the arm and helped him to his feet. At that moment they heard the sound of heavy footsteps in the distance.

"They must have gone this way!" Hank Hall's voice roared through the trees.

"We gotta go John!" Mari pulled him further.

"Mari… Mari I won't be able to get through that tunnel fast enough." John said as he limped on his hurt leg. "You go on without me."

"No! We are doing this together!" She pleaded.

"Mari if I go, we'll both be caught. Run."

"But John they'll kill you!"

"I'm their best worker Mari. If the rest of you escape, I'll be their _only _worker. They won't kill me."

"John-"

"Mari." He grabbed her hands tightly. "They will not kill me. Go."

"John I-"

"Go!" He shoved her forward.

With a hurt look on her face, Mari turned and ran toward the tunnel. John sighed, and slowly looked behind him to see Hank and Carter Hall approaching.

And just like that, with one act of nobility, he watched his one shot at freedom disappear.

**Drogheda, Ireland**

"_Dinah, there's been an accident…" _Those haunting words repeated in Dinah Lance's mind for the hundredth time as she sprinted to the office of Shamus O'Hara, the local doctor. _There's been an accident._ Those were the very same words the authorities had said to her after her mother died in the fire. Now those words had been spoken to her again, and there was a strong chance of her losing yet another loved one.

The messenger had been Bibbo Bibbowski, the man who owned the pub where it had happened. Dinah had always liked Bibbo. He was like a brother to Teddy, and therefore like an uncle to her. It had been early morning when he knocked on her door. _"Dinah, there's been an accident. Ted was taken to the doctor right away."_

The door burst open, and Dinah found her way inside immediately. The doctor looked as if he had been expecting her. "How is he?" She asked between gasps for air. "Ms. Lance, I presume?"

"Where is Ted? Is he ok?"

"He is in the next room, alive for now at least. I've done everything that I can, but his injuries were quite severe. And coupled with the heart attack he suffered, probably due to the stress caused by his injuries… it looks grim."

"I want to see him."

"I think that may not be the best-" The doctor was shoved out of the way before he could finish his sentence, and Dinah opened up the door leading into the patient's room. Horror enveloped the young woman as she looked upon the man who had practically raised her. He lay upon a mattress, bound up in blood-soaked bandages. His body was a rainbow of purple bruising, and his arm hung slack on an unnatural angle.

Dinah felt her hands begin to shake, and she cried. "Is he awake?"

"No. I doubt that he will be conscious any time soon." The doctor told her calmly.

"Who did this to him?"

"I do not know. I'm sorry."

Suddenly there was a knock on the side of the open door. Dinah and the doctor both turned to see a young man with ginger red hair and twinkling blue eyes. The expression on his face was serious, but also sad. "Dinah Lance?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"My name is Wallace West. I work with the police department. If you don't mind, there are a few questions I would like to ask."

"Of course." Diana stepped forward.

"I'll stay with the patient." The doctor suggested.

"That sounds good." Wallace nodded. Dinah stepped out, closing the door being her, and he handed her a tissue.

"Thank you." She wiped her eyes. "You said you're a police investigator?"

"Correct." He nodded. "I trust you and the victim were close?"

"My mother died in a fire when I was just a child. My father, he was never around much. Teddy was a good friend of the family, he raised me most of my life."

"I see. So… off the record… what was he doing at that pub? He was found in the alley, but no one seemed to think it was suspicious that he was in said alley. What goes on there?"

"He…" Dinah paused. "He is a fighter. It's how he makes his money."

"So it's an underground fight club, then?"

"Exactly."

"Well that confirms it then…"

"Confirms what?"

"Nothing. Don't worry yourself with it."

"Don't _worry_ myself? Mr. West the man I view as a father could be on his death bed! Now if you have some suspicion as to why, I damn well deserve to know!"

Wallace stared at her for several long moments, before finally he spoke. "Very well. I have been tracking a man across Europe for several months now. He calls himself Bane."

"Bane?"

"He hails from Spain, and believes himself to be the greatest fighter to ever walk the Earth. He seeks challenges everywhere he goes, and he's killed dozens just to prove himself superior."

"And you think he is the one who did this to Teddy?"

"The situation appears to match his handiwork, yes."

"Wait a moment… you say you've been tracking this man across _Europe? _I believe that any land outside this district would be out of your jurisdiction Mr. West. Am I wrong?"

"I said I was with the police department. I never said I was an officer."

"Then what exactly are you?"

"I'm a bounty hunter." Wallace turned toward the door and began to leave, when Dinah stepped back in front of him. "What is it?"

"I want to help."

"Excuse me?"

"I want to help you find Bane. I want to bring him to justice."

"Miss it's a fine notion, but you don't understand how dangerous this man truly is. He is involved in things much greater than mere prize fighting. He is in the business of arms dealing; he illegally provides stolen weaponry to anyone who will pay his price. He has a practical army of criminals at his disposal, and he will not hesitate to kill."

"It means little me. I can handle myself."

"I'm sure you can Dinah, but not against Bane."

Suddenly, Dinah struck Wallace in a pressure point on his neck, disorienting him enough to put him on the floor with a crushing kick. "Teddy taught me how to fight. I can take care of myself Wallace."

"Impressive I'll admit, but the answer is still no." Wallace got to his feet. "Now good day miss."

"If you don't let me help you, I'll just have to go after him myself."

"You'll never find Bane."

"Won't I? Teddy knew enough of the criminal population in this city, and as a result so do I. And as you just witnessed, I can fight. I assume that I'll be quite persuasive in my asking for Bane's whereabouts."

"You'll be killed."

"Perhaps. And perhaps you'll be killed. But think, don't both of us have a better chance of surviving if we are not alone?"

"You know I could be jailed for dragging a civilian into this."

"No one has to know but us."

After a moment, Wallace sighed. "Alright then. Come with me. But when we find Bane, stay out of my way." He walked past her again.

"What for? I want to take him on!"

"I have my own vendetta against Bane."

"A vendetta of what sort?"

Wallace looked back at her with sad eyes and said, "He killed my uncle Barry."

**Virginia**

Gunfire. Gunfire and screams. That was all Billy Batson heard since the bloodshed had begun. A heavy storm had rolled in, and rain pounded the soldiers as they tore each other apart. Billy just ran. He was too afraid. He wanted to fight, but the idea terrified him. And he hated himself for it.

He had long since dropped his rifle, and now sprinted away from the battlefield. Ran as fast as he could through the muddy, soaking wet meadow. He ran until the killing could no longer be heard, and then he collapsed. He fell to his knees and wept. Billy's face met his knees, and he sat in the middle of the muddy, weeded tangle with rain pouring onto him, lightning and thunder blasting above.

"What's wrong boy?" A voice asked out of nowhere, startling Billy. He looked back to see an elderly man, walking with a cane. He had glasses and long, wavy hair.

"Where did you come from?" Billy asked shakily.

"I live not far from here."

"In the middle of the forest?"

"Better than a town. Far more peaceful. And now that I've answered your question, it is only common courtesy to answer mine. What is wrong?"

"I just hate myself."

"Well that's quite a statement. What for?"

"I joined the militia because I wanted to do a good thing. I'm an orphan you see, and… I just…"

"You wanted to prove yourself brave to those who pity you?"

"Yes, yes that's it. But I ran away. My first time on the battlefield and I got too scared and ran away."

"Well if it means anything, I think you're a very brave young lad."

"No I'm not. I am not brave. The brave don't run."

"Do you who Aristotle was?"

"No."

"He was a Greek philosopher, long before our time. A very intelligent man. Aristotle once said, 'I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies, because the hardest victory is over self."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that sometimes, doing what one knows is right is far braver than doing what one wants. You wanted to prove yourself on the battlefield. But deep down, you don't want to kill anyone, do you?"

"No." Billy admitted.

"Because you believe that it is wrong. You aren't a coward for not wanting hurt anyone, quite the opposite actually. I think you're quite a brave boy, for choosing honor from yourself over honor from others."

"Thank you Mr." Billy smiled.

"And I hate to see such bravery go without reward. Here you are, boy." The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a key, handing it to Billy.

"A key?" Billy stared at it. "What's for?" No response. Billy looked up to ask again, but to his surprise, the man was gone. "Sir? Sir, where did you go?" Billy stood up. "What is this for?" He held the key up in the air, and as soon as he did, a bolt of lightning erupted down from the sky and struck it. The electricity surged through Billy, and his vision went dark.

This near death was the beginning of Billy Batson's new life.

**Venice, Italy**

"Man left the place a mess." The tenant grumbled as he inspected the room his latest renter had destroyed. The tenant was a trusting man, he would rent the cot to anyone who needed it, and whatever price seemed fair. But this last man had gone too far, the cot was practically in ruin. The tenant pondered all of this grudgingly, when he heard a knock at the door.

Reluctantly, he walked over and pushed the door open. There was no one. "Hello?" He asked the open air, confused. He walked out onto the doorstep to get a better look around, and as soon as he did, a strong pair of hands gripped under his shoulders and he was jerked upward. He felt the cool night air rush past him, right before he was slammed violently onto the roof of his cot. Once his vision came back into focus, he looked up at his attacker, horrified.

To his surprise, the assailant was a woman. She had long, flowing black hair and piercing dark eyes. She gazed at him with a lust for violence plastered clearly on her face. "Where is he?" She asked demandingly.

"W-who?" He stammered. As soon as the question was asked, the woman withdrew an arrow with a green tip, and jabbed it into the wood right next to his head, slicing his left ear almost in half. He let out a scream as blood lucked onto the green arrow head.

"I'll ask again! Where is the man who rented this place last?"

"I don't know where he is!" The tenant pleaded. She jerked his head upward, and bashed it against the wood again.

"Don't lie to me! You know something!"

"His name was Oliver Queen! He had a young man accompanying him, a red headed boy named Leroy Harper!"

"What did Queen look like?"

"Tall, blond, bearded. And green eyes, very bright green eyes."

"He must have said where he was headed next. You must have heard something!"

"Nothing, I swear!"

"I do not believe you." She bashed his head again, harder this time. "Does this help your memory, perhaps?"

"Th- the boy, Leroy… he mentioned something about catching a train."

"A train to where?"

"I don't know! I swear upon my life I do not know!"

"Your life is a large prize to wager." The woman hissed. "Lucky for you, it is one that I'll let you keep for now. We'll be in touch." Then, just as suddenly as she had come, the woman was gone.

**Rhode Island**

"And you're sure you can bring them in?" Carter Hall asked again.

"I guarantee it." Gregory Saunders nodded with another drink of his rum.

"All but one of my slaves escaped. I'd rather not buy anymore, if you can return them to my property soon."

"They'll be back on your plantation by the time the week is out." Gregory said assuredly.

"Can't we just let them be?" Shayera Hall voiced her opinion. Carter glared at her with drunken rage in his eyes, and she fell silent. Carter then looked back to Gregory Saunders.

"If you can find them, I'll pay whatever amount you ask for."

"My services aren't cheap, Mr. Hall. But they are effective." Gregory put on his hat and pulled up his bandana. "There's a reason they call me the Vigilante where I'm from. I consider my work more important than the law."

**Birmingham, England**

Diana Prince sat underneath the eve of an old thrift store, waiting for the rain to let up, and trying to decide where to go. She couldn't return home, she had no interest in dealing with her mother's overprotective sheltering any longer.

She didn't want to meet Arthur Curry, she didn't want to be married off and pump out his half-Swedish children, she just wanted to be free. She needed to get away. Far away.

Then she heard a train off in the distance. She found her purse, and counted what little money she had left with her. She could afford a train ride. And if it would take her away from Birmingham, from her mother's constant badgering, then so be it. She was happy with the idea.

But for now, she needed shelter. If she was going to buy a train ride, she couldn't afford to rent. But perhaps she could work it off? Maybe the owner would just let her sleep in the shop for the night. Diana knocked on the door, but there was no response. She knocked again. Nothing.

Thinking that maybe the owner was asleep, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. A sickening smell assaulted her nose. She tried to ignore it, and moved toward the man at the desk on the far end of the shop. As she made her way toward him, the stench grew stronger. _Doesn't the man ever bathe?_

He didn't seem to notice her. He was fixated on a book in his hands. Diana stopped at the desk, wrinkling her nose, and spoke. "Excuse me, sir, I hate to intrude, but could I please sleep here for the night?"

Nothing. "Sir?" She tried again, but again had no response. Growing frustrated, Diana touched the man's shoulder. "Sir!" As she shook, the book fell out of his hands, and they fell limp. His neck plopped to the left, and he stared up at her with cold, lifeless eyes, his face captured in an eternal scream.

And there was a wide, bloody gash on his throat. Diana felt her stomach flip and she uttered a scream. She stumbled backward quickly, and felt something behind her… something strong, and warm. "Hello dear." Said the voice of the man she had bumped into. She spun around, her heart pounding in her chest.

The man was tall; he wore a black trench coat and dark gloves. A top hat sat upon his head, and his collar was high. The only visible skin was that on his face, which was kind and gentlemanly. He had a warm smile as he looked down at her.

"That man! That man is dead!"

"I know, I've already informed the constable. The best we can do is just remain calm until help arrives."

"Al-alright." She choked nervously. He put a hand to her face, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes.

"What's a beautiful young thing like you doing out alone so late at night? Especially in this weather."

"Just looking for a place to stay the night."

"I see. I know a place nearby where you could find affordable shelter. Would you like me to show you?"

"Please." She sighed gratefully, her fear beginning to dissipate slightly. Then heard a drip on the floor, and glanced down to see that the man's left sleeve was soaked with blood, and it was dripping down from inside his coat. "You're bleeding!" She stated.

"Oh, yes, I know. It's just a scratch."

"Well let me look at it, its bleeding quite a lot."

"Oh no, its fine." He assured her.

"Let me look, please." She pulled up the man's sleeve to inspect his wrist. Her eyes widened at what she saw. Tally marks. There were dozens of tally marks carved all over the man's arm! And the most recent one, the fourth in a line, had just been hacked into his wrist, obviously done with a serrated knife. With a gulp, Diana reluctantly looked back at the dead man at the desk. The wound on his neck resembled the one on this man's wrist. The same knife had been used.

Horror washed over Diana as she looked up at the man. The _killer. _Quickly, Diana stomped the man's foot, making him bend downward so she could punch him in the face! He stumbled backward and spat blood onto the wooden floor. "Oh, I wish you hadn't done that." He waved his finger at her. He removed his trench coat, revealing a bare torso, covered in even more tally marks! "Although, I suppose I do need a fifth to finish the latest tally. Don't I?"

He grabbed a knife from his pocket, a knife covered in fresh blood. Diana was already on the run, but he was fast chasing after her. She threw down chairs hoping to block his path, but he jumped over them effortlessly.

Just as Diana was about to reach the door, a piercing, terrible pain erupted throughout her body. She hit the floor with a scream, and glanced back to see the knife had been planted in the back of her knee.

He grabbed for her, but Diana grabbed a clay pot off of a table and spun around, smashing it against his head. The attacker doubled over clutching his head, and Diana hobbled into what appeared to be a storage room. It was a small room, cluttered with clay figurines and large shelves full of different items. Diana hid behind a shelf and stuffed her mouth with her own sock, to muffle her heavy breathing.

Carefully, she grabbed the hilt of the knife that had been jammed into her leg, and with crippling agony, ripped it out. Blood splattered, and Diana wrapped the wound in her other sock, leaving her barefoot.

She sat silently, clutching the bloody knife in her hands. She was shaking, and listened carefully for the sound of footsteps. The sound of the man creeping into the room sounded, the floorboards creaking, and he began to speak softly "Here little piggy, show uncle Zsasz where it hurts. Let uncle Zsasz kiss it better."

Diana tried in vain to stop her trembling, and waited until she heard him approach the shelf she was behind. Then she crept quietly but quickly around to the other side, planning to sneak up behind him and stab him in the back. As she came around the next corner, she saw his shadow moving ahead of her. Good.

With one final breath, she sprinted forward and moved to plunge the knife at him! The knife hit its mark, sinking in easily, and Diana let out a primal, furious roar. Then she examined the figure more closely, and her eyes widened in horror.

She had stabbed a clay figurine. "Now, now darling… were you trying to hit me?" The man's voice crept into her ears from behind. She tried to pull the knife out the figurine, but it was too late.

He grabbed Diana by the hair, lifting her upwards.

"Let me go!" She screamed in agony.

"I wish I could, beautiful. But then you would go and tell the police all about little old me, and I can't have you doing that." The man's free hand found her jaw, and he pulled it over, forcing her to look him in the eyes. "You really are a pretty little thing. I may have to take advantage of that before I kill you…"

She tried kicking free of his grasp, but to no avail. "I know a very special place to release you, darling."

"Release me from what?"

"From the cage of life. You see, I'm not a bad guy. I just want to free you from your meaningless little existence; it's in the best interest of everyone involved really." He leaned in and whispered in her ear. "But what I'm going to do _before _I kill you… that is entirely for my benefit."

"What is your name? I'll see to it that you never see the daylight again!"

"Don't make threats you can't carry out, darling. But if you must know, my name is Victor Zsasz. Now…" He flung Diana forward and smashed her head on the edge of a wooden table, knocking her out. "Let's go have some fun."

**A/N I apologize for that cruel cliffhanger. I'll update soon, I promise ;)**

**On a different note, there's one thing that I haven't been able to decide on, so I'm leaving it up to the readers. Should I have John wind up joining the 1****st**** Rhode Island Regiment, the first Revolutionary War regiment to accept black soldiers, or should he be forced to go with Vigilante and help hunt down the slaves who escaped? **

**I can make it work either way, so let me know what you think.**


	3. Bird Dung and Bat Signals

**I am really sorry that this update took as long as it did. Keeping up with four ongoing fics, school, and life in general has proved to be a lot harder than I expected. From here on out, I promise to update at LEAST once a month. If I do not, then… well, I'll let you guys decide the punishment! Be creative.**

**I feel like the last portion of this chapter is a bit rushed, because to be honest, I wrote this in one sitting and by that point I was getting very restless. But aside from that, I feel like this is a good chapter, and hopefully it's worth the wait!**

Chapter Three: Bird Dung and Bat Signals 

"Interesting." Detective Bruce Wayne examined the body of the dead storekeeper; a deep gash riveted the man's throat. Upon further examination, Bruce was able to determine that the man had been killed with a serrated blade. There were dozens of gashes all along the man's torso. He had been tortured long before his execution. There were deep grooves in his wrists, where he had obviously been bound by a rope while the torture took place. Judging by the dislocated shoulders, Bruce surmised that he had probably been hung with his arms above his head for a long period of time. Probably several days. There were more minor lacerations on his face, probably from an early struggle with his attacker.

Looking further, Bruce found that both the man's Achilles tendons had been severed. He wouldn't have been able to run away even if he had tried. "Whoever our attacker was, he was quite cruel. He dragged out this kill, made sure his victim suffered."

"What's bothering me is, if he was hung like we think he was, why did we find him positioned in his chair, like he was reading a book?" Richard Grayson asked.

"That seems to be this killer's trademark. All of the victims found throughout Birmingham thus far have been placed in a lifelike position." Bruce explained. The detective looked up at the wooden support beam above, and sure enough, rope dangled from it. "The victim was tied up right here, same area he was killed in. I'd say this is where the whole bloody thing took place."

"Right here? In this spot?"

"In the general vicinity, yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because there's blood over there." Richard pointed to the other side of the shop. A now dried pool of coppery-smelling red adorned the wood.

"Interesting." Mr. Wayne approached the blood. After a moment of examination, he said, "This is not from our victim."

"How do you know that?"

"Because with the amount that I'm seeing here, this was probably the result of a punctured artery. Probably in the leg, judging by the blood splatter pattern. And on our victim over there, the killer was careful to avoid cutting any vital organs prior to slitting his throat, to make sure the torture was prolonged."

"You can't possibly know where the wound occurred just by how the blood sprayed!" Richard protested.

"Can't I?" Bruce grinned. He stood up, and got into a runners position. "The person must have been in this position when the knife punctured their leg, in order to the blood to pattern that way. That means that this person was running away when they were stabbed."

"So we have a second victim somewhere, then? Someone who was running away?"

"That sums it up, yes."

"Then where is this second victim?"

"I haven't a clue." Bruce Wayne looked around the room. "Or perhaps I do…"

"Huh?" Richard asked as Bruce pushed past him. The detective walked over to the back door, where he picked up a small object that had been gleaming in the sunlight. "What is it?" Richard questioned.

"It's a pendant." Bruce turned the small golden piece of jewelry around his palm, before tossing it to Richard. Richard looked at the symbol on the pendant, and studied it a moment.

"Haven't I seen this symbol before?" He asked.

"Yes, you have." Bruce nodded. "It's the Prince family crest."

**Railroad in England**

Oliver Queen and Leroy Harper rode inconspicuously aboard the railroad, headed to Birmingham. "Something about this doesn't sit right with me." Oliver mumbled.

"About what?" Leroy cocked an eyebrow.

"See that woman there?" Oliver's voice dropped to a whisper, and he nodded to an Italian woman seated on the far end of the railroad car.

"Yes."

"Where else have you seen her?"

Leroy thought for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face. "I wouldn't know, Queen." He said finally. "I don't remember every face I see."

"I remember her because of her breasts, not her face."

"Of course you do."

"That's beside the point." Oliver opened up an old newspaper, pretending to read it. "Remember when we stopped at the fruit stand in London?"

"Yes."

"She was there too. Then when we boarded this train, she did as well."

"Could it simply be coincidence?" Leroy suggested.

"She didn't buy any fruit. A person doesn't just linger around a fruit stand unless they're going to buy some fruit, am I right? Plus, she is clearly Italian. Not just in heritage either, I heard her speak to a woman near the stand… she possesses a heavy Italian accent. Considering her clothing, appearance, accent… I'd say she lives in Italy."

"So?"

"So… why would she be going to Birmingham?"

"Visiting friends?"

"I suppose it's also a _coincidence _that we just came from Italy?"

"What do you think then? You think this woman is stalking us?"

"Yes. And I can't say I blame her, after all… what woman _wouldn't _want to follow me?" Oliver grinned. "But regardless, this pursuit borders on obsession. She is either insane, or she has another motive…"

"Like what?"

"Well, we did just rob the Pope."

"So you suspect the Pope hired a woman to murder us then?"

"Well, women _are _my weakness."

"You're being paranoid."

"Perhaps." Oliver leaned back in his seat. "But perhaps not. Let me test something."

Oliver got to his feet, and walked across the train car. When he approached the woman, he "accidentally" kicked her shin. "My apologies ma'am." He told her with great sincerity.

"No trouble." She replied naturally.

"Let me make it up to you." Oliver flashed his famous smile. Or perhaps it was infamous, depending on whom you ask. "Let me buy you dinner."

"Go to hell."

"Thank you for your time." Oliver turned and walked back to Leroy.

"Well?" His young ward asked.

"She didn't want to have dinner with me." Oliver frowned. "She is definitely here to kill us."

**Germany - John Henry Irons Metal Shop**

John Henry Irons brought his hammer down on the piece of hot metal that would soon be a sword. He was a famed blacksmith, known all throughout Europe. He was an African American man who had escaped slavery over a decade before. He'd run to Germany, where people were still distracted by witch hunts enough that he could start up a blacksmith shop without attracting any negative attention.

Since then, business had boomed. He'd made a great name for himself, and his work had been credited of the finest on the continent. Within another few hours, the sword was finished. That was when he took it to the grinder, the wheel of which was spun by his niece Natasha Irons, who often helped John around the shop.

Sparks surged outward as he pressed the sword against the grinder. This went on for several minutes before there was a heavy knock on the door. John gave a deep sigh, hating it when his work is interrupted, and placed the sword on his workbench. He walked toward the door grumpily, and opened it up.

On the other side were two people; one a young, red haired man with bright blue eyes, and the other a tall, beautiful blond woman with a fierce expression on her face. The red haired man flashed his badge. "Wallace West. And you are John Henry Irons, I presume?"

"I am."

"May I come in?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

"It wasn't really a question, Mr. Irons. I was only trying to be cordial." Wallace kept his ever present grin as he stated this.

"Fine." John growled, and stepped to the side. "Come in."

Wallace and Dinah walked into the workshop, the smell of hot metal assaulting their noses immediately. "What's going on?" Natasha Irons asked.

"Go finish your homework, Natasha. This is a private matter." John told her, and with a reluctant scowl, the young woman obliged and left the room. John turned to face Wallace. "What is this about?"

"Your client."

"I have a lot of clients. Mr. West. You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"He goes by the name of Bane. A Spanish man, about six foot seven, very muscled. I have reason to believe that he purchased a large supply of weapons from you recently."

"Doesn't ring a bell. I'm sorry." John picked up the sword he had been working on, and for a moment, Dinah thought he might attack. But instead, he simply returned it to the grinder, which he was now turning with left arm. Sparks erupted.

"We aren't done here, Mr. Irons."

"And neither is my work, Mr. West."

"So, you're _certain _you never sold any weapons to a man fitting that description?" Wallace pressed.

"Quite certain. I keep records of all of my business transactions, if you would like to see them."

"Perhaps this will jog your memory." Wallace's eyes narrowed. "Bane is a murderer, and an illegal arms dealer. The weapons you made for him were probably sold to more murderers."

"I never created anything for the man, I promise you." John watched as the sword was grinded smaller and faller, shavings of metal piling up on the floor. It was getting extremely small now, and Dinah wondered when he would stop. "I'll ask again, would you like to see my business records?"

"I trust that your records would have suffered the same amnesia as you, since you are so willing to offer them." Wallace glared. "Assuming you _did _create weapons for this man, and that you _are _lying to me… the blood of hundreds is on your hands. You do know that?"

"My conscience is clear." John's face remained emotionless. "I think this man you are looking for must have purchased his weapons elsewhere."

"We uncovered a sword gun used by a member of his band of criminals. The gun bore your initials on it, Mr. Irons. I've been told that you initial all of your work."

"Do you know how many copycats I have, Mr. West? I don't know if you're aware, but I'm considered by many the best blacksmith in all of Europe. Many people forge my signature so that they can sell their work for a higher price, regardless of actual quality."

By now, there was literally nothing left of the sword. There was only a pile of metal shavings beneath the grinder. "Why did you do that?" Dinah asked, interrupting the conversation.

"What?"

"Why did you go through all the hard work to make that sword, and then just grind it to nothing?"

John smiled. He obviously enjoyed talking about his work. "I'll show you." He told her, and then he took a broom from the corner. She swept the metal shavings into a large pile on a dust pan, lifted the pan carefully, and approached a large square object covered up by a white sheet. John removed the sheet, and underneath was a metal cage… filled with pigeons.

"Pigeons?" Wallace raised an eyebrow.

"Watch." John poured the metal shavings into a bag of bird feed, mixed it around a bit, and then began hand feeding the birds.

"So is there a reason you're feeding sword scraps to a bunch of birds?" Dinah frowned.

"What does bird poop smell of?" John asked with a grin.

"Ammonia?" Wallace tried.

"Right. Do you know why that is?"

"No."

"It's because their droppings are filled with nitrogen. So I make my swords, I grind them up, then I mix the shavings in with bird feed and allow the pigeons to eat it. When their digestion process occurs, the nitrogen reacts with the metal, and hardens it. So the next day, after they've done their business, I collect the metal remnants and use it to create another, stronger sword. The process can be repeated several times. The sword will get a bit smaller every time, of course, but it will be damn near unbreakable."

"Is that why Bane bought his weapons from you?" Wallace finally allowed his grin to slip into a frown.

"I keep telling you, Mr. West, that I was in no way involved with this criminal you are looking for." John turned around, an equally grim expression on his face. The two men stared each other down. John was much taller, and infinitely more muscular. Still, Wallace remained confident under his gaze.

"You don't scare me, Irons." Wallace's voice was nearly a whisper.

"Then you're a fool."

"I've built my career upon it."

The two men were silent for a few long moments. "I never sold any weaponry of any kind to any man fitting your description." John said very plainly and evenly. "I suggest you hunt down my impersonators, you'll probably have more luck, rather than wasting both of our time."

"You're a man of science." Wallace said with equal calmness. "I can tell by your unusual method of creating swords." He glanced to the pigeons. "Clever."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It may surprise you to know that I'm a man of science too. I learned from my uncle Barry. Do you know where he is now? Six feet underground, with a stab wound in his chest."

"I'm very sorry."

"That stab wound was made by a sword."

"Many are."

"Yes, but my scientific nature wouldn't allow me to ignore an odd scent that I picked up while visiting the body. Wally stepped past John and walked toward the pigeons. "Do you know what I smelled on my uncle's body, John?"

"What?"

"Ammonia."

A dead silence fell upon the room. Wallace handed a bit of feed to one of the birds, and allowed it to eat from his palm. "Unless there's another blacksmith in the area who forges their swords using bird crap…" Wallace turned again and faced John. "That sword had to have come from you."

More silence.

Wallace walked closer to John, until there was barely a centimeter between their noses. "I know you sold weapons to Bane, Mr. Irons. And as soon as I can prove it… I'm dragging you to prison."

"Good luck." John offered, remaining emotionless.

"Come on Dinah. We're going." Wallace took off toward the doorway.

"Wait." Dinah stood still, her gaze locked on John.

"What?"

"We know he did it!" Dinah clenched her fists.

"Dinah-"

"He knows Bane! He knows where he is!"

"I don't know anything." John told her just as plainly as he had told Wallace.

"Liar!" She lunged, and before John could even comprehend what was happening, Dinah had struck him in the face, drawing a fountain of blood from his nose. John's head flew back, and Dinah launched a knee into his groin, doubling him over. She performed a roundhouse kick and smashed John against the brick wall, before grabbing a knife from his table and pressing it against his throat. "Tell me where Bane is! Tell me right now damn it, or I swear to God I will cut your head off!"

"Dinah!" Wallace ran for her.

"Tell me!" She pressed harder, drawing blood from his neck.

Wallace grabbed Dinah's shoulders and jerked her back. "You are not helping!" He yelled.

"He knows something! You know he does! We just have to force it out of him!"

"That isn't how it works."

"That isn't how _you _work!"

"And I don't _have _to bring you along with me."

At the sound of this threat, Dinah bit her lip and clenched her fists, but backed down grudgingly.

The two left the shop, leaving John Henry Irons to bandage his wounds.

**Rhode Island**

"No." John Stewart stood firmly.

"It wasn't a choice." Carter Hall growled. "Listen up nigger, you'll do what I tell you, or you'll be punished. That's that."

"I won't help you apprehend my friends."

"John, think about it." Greg Sanders stated. "Do you really think they'll be able to survive on their own, out on the open like they are, with no money? Bringing them back here will be helping them."

"You are so full of shit."

Carter flung a punch and struck John in the face. "You'll help Greg find the rest of my slaves, or I will kill you. Plain and simple."

"It'd be better than working for you."

Carter bit his lip, obviously seething with rage, but after a moment breathed a sigh and tried a different approach. "Tell you what. You help Greg find them, and I'll make you a free man. You'll never have to work for me again."

"What about the others?"

"If I were going to leave them free, there'd be no point in paying Greg here to track them down."

"Then no deal."

"You can't be serious?"

"Either all of us go free, or no deal."

"How about this?" Carter sighed. "You'll help Greg, and when you find them, you automatically earn your freedom. As for the others, they'll be put on a ten year contract. Ten more years of working on my plantation, and then they can go free."

"Three years."

"Five. No less than that."

"Fine." John grunted.

"Good then." Greg walked up and placed handcuffs onto John.

"What are these for?" John glared at the handcuffs.

"Just to make sure you don't get any bright ideas." Greg gave a cruel grin. "Now let's get going. You and I have runaways to find."

**Abandoned Lighthouse – Birmingham Harbor**

Diana Prince came awake very slowly. Her eyes flickered open and closed, adjusting to the dim light created by the various lanterns hanging throughout the room. She tried to move her arms. She couldn't. Diana soon realized that she was tied to a wooden table.

"Finally awake, dear?" A low, gentle voice said from the shadows. Victor Zsasz walked forward, stepping into the light. He was shirtless, and the various tally marks on his body looked gruesome in the low orange glow.

"Go to hell." She spat at him.

"So much… _fire._" Zsasz uttered the words almost hungrily. "Oh… how I…" His voice began to quiver. "How I want your tally…" He raised a knife into the air, covered in dried blood, and Diana felt panic overtake her.

Zsasz's hand was shaking, he was so eager. "Your mark… just a simple cut… a cut to resemble the fiery essence leaving your beautiful little body, as you scream your final song…" Zsasz was stammering in anticipation now, an evil hunger in his eyes. "But I'll wait." He lowered the knife, his eerie calm suddenly returning to him.

"I can wait… after all; I have a very specific picture in mind for your final scene. I want you sitting at a dinner table, with a couple of children, and a husband. You're hands will be joined, you'll be saying grace… you're heads will all be lowered in prayer, hiding the slash wounds across your little throats…"

"You sick bastard." Diana growled.

"Hey!" Zsasz snapped, walking toward her slowly. "I had both of my parents, right up until the day I killed them. So be careful with your choice alright darling?"

Zsasz retrieved the knife, the hunger returning to his eyes. "I'll be back in a bit, darling. I have to pick your family… for the final scene."

Zsasz then left as quickly as he had come, leaving Diana alone. Once she was certain that Zsasz had left, she began struggling. She had given up any hope of breaking the chains that bound her wrists and ankles.

Instead, she bucked her hips, trying to knock over the table. She bucked left for several minutes, shaking the table every time but never knocking it over.

Finally, one of the table legs reached a loose floorboard, and she thrust herself to the left, hooking the table leg against the board. Finally, the table went crashing down to the floor with a painful jolt. She rolled onto her knees, and began crawling slowly, awkwardly, with the table on her back.

She waited a few minutes, figuring out just how to build her momentum, and finally took her chance. She thrust herself upward off her knees, throwing herself awkwardly onto her feet. Her ankles were bound by chains, and so she stumbled immediately. The table legs crashed against the wooden wall, and one of them snapped. _Good_, she thought.

She stumbled uneasily, careful not to fall onto her face, and she rammed the table against the wall again. She repeated this process several times until the legs had all snapped off. Now she had to break the table somehow. Smashing it against a flat surface wasn't going to work.

She stumbled uncomfortable around, shuffling slowly, looking for an option. The only one she found, she didn't like. Seeing on other choice, Diana shuffled to a lantern on the wall, and jumped back. She smashed the lantern with the flat surface of the wooden table, and the burning oil ignited it.

Diana felt the heat quickly rise as the table set ablaze. Soon it was burning her back. She screamed, feeling her flesh blacken under the intense heat. Her hair caught fire too. The pain was unreal. Once she had waited long enough to suspect the table was weak enough, she rammed it against the wall once more. This time, the table shattered to pieces, having been weakened by the fire. She stumbled forward, and ripped off her burning clothing. She reached for a knife, one of many, and used it to cut off clumps of her burning hair.

She'd never experienced such pain before. Diana wobbled onto her feet, crying. She fell against the wall and took a moment to gather a little bit of composure, knowing she probably had third degree burns all over the back of her body.

Once her breathing had slowed, Diana began stumbling through the room. She took the largest knife she could find. She needed defense for when Zsasz came back. After opening a door and finding a large window, overlooking the water, Diana realized that she was in a lighthouse.

Probably a very old lighthouse, one that was no longer in use. Zsasz must have gotten his hands on a boat, and taken up residence in the light house between murders.

There was a telescope. Diana took it and gazed out the window. She didn't know how long it had been. Her perception of time had pretty much been thrown out of the window. But she knew that she had to escape.

_Maybe Zsasz has another boat? No, of course not. He wouldn't leave a second boat just lying around. It wouldn't be that easy. _She thought quickly, looking for some sort of escape option. She certainly couldn't swim to shore.

_I have to signal for help._ She thought. Diana searched the upper levels of the old lighthouse, until she finally found the light. She'd once read a book on lighthouses, in the family library. Thinking long and hard, she thought that she could remember how to turn on the light. Assuming it still worked.

She tried. It took an hour. Or maybe ten minutes. She didn't know. But soon, the light was shining into the night sky. _Perfect._ She thought with a weak grin. But she knew it wasn't enough. A simple, inconspicuous light in the sky wasn't going to make a difference. She needed a symbol. Diana opened an emergency hatch and stumbled outside, walking carefully along the ledge on the edge of the lighthouse.

Having only one option, Diana withdrew a pendant from her pocket. It had always intrigued her as a child. It was one of the rare artifacts that the Amazon Corporation had collected. She'd taken it from the warehouse. It was from an ancient African civilization. Little was known about it, but the symbol was believed to represent some god that they apparently worshipped in the tribe.

Diana had been fascinated by the simple pendant, and carried it with her always. She'd branded it her good luck charm as a child. Now, she held the pendant up against the bright lighthouse light.

The pendant represented a bat symbol, large and black. And with the light, Diana projected a gigantic bat signal into the sky.

And she hoped to God that someone would get the message… before Zsasz came back.

**Next chapter we get the meeting between Bruce and Diana, as well as more information on this world's Clark Kent and Lex Luthor! So… stay tuned :P**


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